


A Thousand Tongues

by whiskyandoldspice (Itsirtou)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:38:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsirtou/pseuds/whiskyandoldspice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was a fight Sam could never win.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Tongues

It’s a fight he can’t win; he can tell from the first swing. His body moves with precision, as he always has, but every muscle is locked up, reacting just a beat too slowly each time, as though he’s moving through molasses.

Sam knows why. It isn’t a mystery. It’s the thing wearing his brother’s face, his brother’s sharp smile and his brother’s glinting eyes. It’s the thing bouncing lightly on his brother’s feet and calling him Sammy in his brother’s deep rasping voice. 

The thing’s smile widens when Sam scores a hit, blood staining its teeth, dripping out of the corner of its mouth and down its chin. It rocks on its toes back and forth like a boxer, arms up, hands in loose fists. 

“C’mon, Sammy, come at me, c’mon,” it hisses, and something inside Sam’s stomach curls unpleasantly, strokes up his spine. Can’t think of it as Dean, can’t think of it like that. His eyes drop to its mouth, quick flicker, but the thing catches it and bares its teeth in a grin. 

Sam darts forward, takes a swing, but it’s half-hearted and slow and the thing catches him with a clip under the chin that sends him reeling back, mouth stinging and suddenly full of blood where he’s bitten his tongue, sharp hot pain. His vision goes gray when the thing hits him with two raps to the jaw, fast and brutal like gunshots, and then a jab to the side of his head that sends him to his knees.

He thinks he fades out, then, would have collapsed but the thing’s got its fingers in his hair, twisting, jerking his head back until he’s staring up at the thing in his brother’s skin, Sam’s mouth helplessly open and dribbling blood and spit past slack lips and onto his chin, his shirt.

“Gonna taste your blood, Sammy,” the thing promises, grinning.

It lets go of his hair. A slap sends him to the floor. The thing kicks him on the side of the head, just once; his vision goes watery, bright white and then black with a stomach-twisting abruptness, and when he comes to he’s on his back, heavy head lolling to one side, with the thing astride him, its knees to either side of his hips.

“ _Told_ you,” it says, delighted as a child, “told you, told you.” It has one hand back in his hair and the other tight around his jaw. There’ll be bruises there, later, dark purpling marks in the shape of his brother’s fingers, and the thought of it makes him whine desperate and tight in the back of his throat. His vision is blurry, and he feels nauseous and weak but he’s half-hard against the pressure of Dean’s weight heavy and sweet on his cock and Dean knows it. The thing knows it, fuck, gotta remember, he has to remember.

The thing leans down and licks at him, gathers red wetness with its tongue and swallows it, saying filthy things against his lips as it eats the blood out of his mouth, holding him down easy with two hands around his wrists. The touch of its tongue on the split skin of his lips is bright hot pain.

“Stop,” he gasps, finally, turning his head and shutting his eyes when the room spins sickly-fast around him. The thing hums against his skin, bites down on the jittering pulse beneath the skin of Sam’s throat, and grinds down hard against the hard line of Sam’s cock, making him jerk and groan low under his breath.

“Want me to, Sammy?” it asks. And its hands are off his wrists, and the only thing holding him down is the weight of the thing sitting light on his hips but then that’s gone too, after a moment, as the thing leans up onto its knees over him, staring down, dark lashes shadowing eyes that flash at him white like an old corpse, like dead skin. “Do you really want me to? This body,” and it runs a hand down its chest, slips a hand under Dean’s shirt and rucks it up so that Sam can see a strip of skin, vulnerable pale flesh of Dean’s stomach, “this body doesn’t want you to. This body wants you, any way it can get you. And I think you want it, too. I think you’d bleed for it, Sammy, I think you’d bleed and come for it, for big brother’s body.” It moans, and it’s Dean’s voice, Dean’s hand pushing the t-shirt up high until Sam can see the soft pink of a nipple, the trail of hair leading down from Dean’s bellybutton and dipping beneath his jeans.

He’s frozen, horribly, an ugly heaviness sitting in the pit of his stomach. There’s no weight on him, not anymore, but it feels as though there are hands on his body pinning him in place, spread and helpless, like a butterfly on a mounting board.

The thing puts its hands on the floor on either side of Sam’s head and leans down, so close that its plush lips are almost brushing against his own with every breath. “I’m going to hurt you,” it whispers, every word punctuated, and Sam exhales sharp as though he’s taken a hit. But he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t say yes, but it’s written on every muscle and every movement; it’s on his lips and his tongue, in his throat, filling his mouth thick like honey until there’s no more room for any other words at all. 

He shuts his eyes when the thing leans down closer but it doesn’t kiss him. It pulls at his lower lip, bites at it with even white teeth, until Sam tastes blood again in his mouth and the thing’s lips are smeared with it.

“Please.” The word comes out shuddering, and so quiet, but somehow the thing knows what he means, what he wants. He wonders, as it pins his wrists down again, if it’s because Dean would have known.

He doesn’t know when the thing becomes Dean, when he starts thinking of the body covering his own as his brother’s. It’s not like flipping a switch, more like a gradual change. It happens sometime after the third kiss but sometime before he’s choking on the cock in his mouth. It’s heavy on his tongue, sliding in with an unrelenting push until he’s gagging and then further, pressure on the back of his throat. His eyes are watering, wetness spiking his lashes as he breathes heavily through his nose like a panicked horse. “Good boy, Sammy,” Dean says, and Sam closes his eyes in relief.

Dean keeps holding him down, even as he pushes Sam’s knees up to his chest and fucks into him on nothing but spit; the pain is unbelievable but Sam comes at the first push of Dean’s cock into his body, clenching down uselessly, hoarse cry ripped out of his mouth so suddenly it hurts his throat.

“Yes,” Dean breathes, as though answering a question, and Sam shudders over and over as it fucks him.

His body is ragdoll limp when Dean pulls out and flips him over with inhuman ease. Sam whines like a hurt animal when Dean grabs his hips and slides back in, fast and deep, quick like a punch. With every harsh thrust he’s pushed forward on the floor and it hurts and he hurts, bone-deep and agonizing but he’s hard again, somehow.

Dean’s strong hand wraps around the back of his neck and then fingers curl around, squeezing his throat with light pressure. When he whimpers the fingers tighten. He gasps but he only brings in a trickle of air, not enough, not enough to keep his head from spinning. He keeps gasping, anyway, even as his vision dims.

“Come for me,” Dean says, dangerous and soft, “want you to come on my cock, Sammy, want you to come with your brother’s hand killing you,” and just like that Sam remembers where he is and who’s fucking him, that the hand constricting his breath doesn’t belong to Dean, but it’s too late and he’s coming, just like he’s been told.

The thing lets out a sigh and grinds deep into his ass, hard enough that he cries out, but he doesn’t try to get away. Pain blooms hot on his shoulder as the thing sinks its teeth in, and then it’s over, it’s done.

He doesn’t get up, so the thing just hooks the toe of its boot under his ribcage and rolls him onto his back, staring down at him. There’s a strange blankness on its face.

“Don’t come after me again,” it says after a long moment. Its foot connects with the side of his head again, same spot as before, and Sam lets out a pained little grunt as he passes out.

When he wakes, he’s staring up at Dean’s face, again, and beyond that the roof of the inside of the Impala.

“Christ,” Dean whispers. His hand touches the purpling mark on Sam’s cheek. Sam doesn’t flinch away from the touch.

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at Dean’s face. “Let’s gut the son of a bitch,” he says, voice hoarse. It’s easier to talk with his eyes shut.

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean says, His fingertips press on the bruise, just a shade too hard. “We will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I have a thousand tongues,  
> And nine and ninety-nine lie.  
> Though I strive to use the one,  
> It will make no melody at my will,  
> But is dead in my mouth.  
> \- Stephen Crane


End file.
